Dear Stacy
by Angelinhel
Summary: Iron Chef: Write letters to Daria characters.Tell them what you honestly think of them, ask them questions, be rude, or lewd. But make it a real letter.
1. Dear Stacy

Dear Stacy,

You are weak.

I despise weakness of the spirit, the kind of weakness that makes people like you roll over and take the punches as if you were somehow deserving of them. However, I know your weakness is not entirely your fault and so I am writing this to you with the hope you will take something from it.

In psychological terms, your particular brand of weakness is what's called 'learned helplessness'. I will try to explain. There is an animal model (rats, not surprisingly) of anxiety and depression called the Tail Shock. In this model, rats are put in a rather confining box with their tail sticking out one end. In front of them is a wheel, which they can turn with their front paws. There's a cue (a light flashing or some kind of noise) after which their tail is hit with a mild electrical shock. Not painful, but most assuredly unpleasant. After what is a surprisingly short time, the rats realize if they spin the wheel after the cue, they receive no shock.

But alas, the experiment continues to where no matter what the rat does, spin or no spin, the shock will come. After a few trials like this, the rats just give up. They no longer spin the wheel hoping that it will prevent the shock. They have learned to be helpless. Nothing they do makes a difference so why bother.

This is you, Stacy. I know in your life you have received many of these little shocks. From Sandi, the rest of the Fashion Club, probably from the whole school. Hell, I'd guess even your family got in a good jolt or two. So the fact you no longer even attempt to escape the hurt is not surprising.

You know what the really sad part is, though? If you take those rats- the ones who learned nothing they do can help them anymore and put them back in the box where if they _did _spin that wheel, they wouldn't get a shock, they _still _don't try. Really, why should they? Nothing mattered before, so why would it now? You can even have them watch other rats spin the wheel and avoid the shock and they still believe nothing they do matters and will just lay there, helpless.

But rarely, very rarely, one will try. Just once, and find out hey! It worked! No shock! It's uncommon and honestly, not something researchers like to explain when they're writing up papers, but there it is. In humans, we call this spirit. And oh how we love to see it triumph. Think of all the movies you've seen where the beaten hero gets up just that one last time.

I'm going to flip the switch, Stacy. What happens next is up to you.

-A


	2. A note first

Out of the blue, a new member of the Daria message board PPMB started a thread about the this Iron Chef entry- my letter to Stacy. Without saying he's a complete whackaloon with an unhealthy obsession with a cartoon character (oops, too late), he pretty much demanded I stop saying and doing horrible things to characters in my stories, and specifically to Stacy. Well, if you've read any of my other stuff, you know that's pretty much all I do. Angst is my thing. Not to mention it's really quite rude to tell other people what they can and cannot write. Nevertheless, the thread inspired this little bit. Yes, it's full of PPMB in-jokes, but it's still a fluffy bit of nonsense that I thought should be posted as a follow-up to "Dear Stacy." The original "AiH is evil" thread is still on the PPMB.


	3. An Apology

_Dear Stacy, _

Please meet me at the following address at one pm on Sunday. I believe I owe you an apology. I would like to issue it in person.

Yours,

A

* * *

Stacy hesitantly stood outside the entrance, staring up at the sign proclaiming the establishment to be to AL GRILL AND DINER in gaudy red and partially broken neon. She'd almost decided not to show up at all, but in the end convinced herself the meeting was in a rather public place in the middle of the day and the writer _had _said she was going to apologize.

There were several other people in the diner which made Stacy feel better. A twenty-something man idly twirled a pen by the register, motioning to her to sit wherever she liked. Passing by several tables and booths, Stacy exchanged a hesitant smile with a gentleman enjoying a cup of coffee. Another man sat in the corner in the back, seemingly ignoring everyone else. The cook, a large black man, hummed to himself as he flipped various things on the grill in the diner's visible kitchen. A woman sat at the counter reading a book, also enjoying a cup of coffee.

Sitting in a booth next to the window with a clear view of the cafe entrance, Stacy nervously flipped through the menu. Greasy choices packed with calories assaulted her eyes. Since most everyone there was drinking coffee, Stacy thought it must be good. Then Sandi's admonishment against caffeine surfaced. When the young bored-looking man came to take her order, Stacy's butterfly-filled stomach allowed her to merely squeak out, "Caffeine-free diet Ultra Cola, please."

She thought she might have seen a hint of a smirk as the waiter walked away, but was too apprehensive to think anything of it. Just as he passed the register, Stacy saw the woman at the counter stand up. Her heart sped up when she realized it was the person she'd come to meet.

Settling across form her and setting down her steaming cup, the woman smiled.

"Hello, Stacy."

"H-hi," Stacy managed to get out.

Sitting back to regard the pigtailed girl the woman said, "Recently I've been informed I was... unpleasant to you. To an unacceptable degree."

Stacy realized the woman seemed to be waiting for some kind of reply. "It wasn't... I mean I didn't... It wasn't me!"

"Goodness, Stacy, I know that." The woman sipped her coffee. "To be honest, and I know you wouldn't know this, but I have had a similar conversation to this with Daria's mother."

"Really?" Last Stacy had heard Helen Morgendorffer had never been a target of this particular writer and to her knowledge, never suffered any of the gruesome cruelties some of her fellow Lawndalians had at her hands. This somehow made her feel better.

"In the end we seemed to agree that angst was better than oblivion." She paused to look Stacy directly in the eye. "You do know that's what happens when your world is abandoned, right?"

Stacy gulped. Yes, she had heard rumors of other planes ceasing to exist because the interest that kept them alive had run out. Still, was it better than some of the things that had happed to people she knew in Lawndale? It was hard to say.

Waving a hand, the woman continued, "But that's neither here nor there. I came here to issue an apology." Stacy looked surprised at this, even though the note had said that's why they were meeting. "In particular, for a letter I wrote to you."

"Well, I... um. It wasn't so bad," Stacy admitted. "After I read it a few times, I could kind of see you wanted me to keep trying. To not give up hope."

Nodding slightly, the woman smiled. "Yeah, that was the point. I really do like you Stacy, you have a lot of depth. There's a lot to work with. That's why you're one of my favorite people in Lawndale."

A bit stunned, Stacy said, "Wow. Thanks. That means a lot."

Just then the waiter brought Stacy's soda. The woman put a bill on the table. "I'll get that. It was nice to see you, Stacy. And I do apologize if the letter came off as too harsh."

Unwrapping her straw, Stacy chided herself for being so nervous. All the writer had done was apologize, just like she said she would. She even said Stacy was one of her favorite people. Really, she wasn't as bad as people said, Stacy thought to herself. She was actually pretty nice. And she did enjoy the attention, a small part of Stacy admitted.

"It's okay," Stacy chirped. "Thanks for meeting me, though. It was... nice."

The woman stood up, leaving her empty mug on the table. She had just passed Stacy when she turned, now standing behind her. "Oh, Stacy," she said, putting a hand on the young girl's shoulder, "one more thing."

"Wha-"

With a lighting-quick motion, the woman twisted Stacy's head at a severe angle. There was a sickening crunch and Stacy's body went completely slack. Gently leaning her head on the table, the woman watched a trickle of blood pool on the Formica surface.

"No more suffering today, Stacy."

The cook set a fresh cup of coffee in front of the woman as she sat back at the counter and picked up her book.

"You're just evil." He was smiling.

She smiled back, but didn't look up from her book. "You know it."

The waiter stood next to the table and frowned. "Why do_ I _always have to clean up?"

The man sitting in the other booth replied, "Because you're the new guy."

"Dammit!"


End file.
